


Drinker Beware

by deafwinchester



Series: We Lost Ourselves on the Way to Paradise [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Trans Dean Winchester, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:36:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6306871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deafwinchester/pseuds/deafwinchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Too many girlie drinks and the presence of Charlie Bradbury seem to have a way of revealing more secrets than any Oprah special Dean has ever pretended not to watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drinker Beware

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short ficlet I wrote with my thumbs on a plane ride into DC.

Alcohol has a way of loosening people's defenses. That's what Dean told himself, no, consoled himself after he somehow ended up baring all for Charlie Bradbury after a combination of a little (okay, a lot) too much whiskey and the girlie drinks that the spitfire had gigglingly coaxed him into shooting back.

That _girl_ had a way of getting past his defenses. And honestly, that wasn't easy to do. Not many people had managed to do it, and he guarded himself carefully both consciously and unconsciously. Hell, he wasn't like _Sam_ , wannabe goody two-shoes Sam, who let demons past his defenses and ended up starting the apocalypse by accident. Only a handful of people had ever managed to get much of anything out of him, and only a few of them had he even been romantically interested in. And no disgusting demon pussy either, thank G-d.

But Charlie Bradbury, with her sweet, unassuming nature and quiet kickass, take-no-shit personality . . . she had wheedled past his defenses and taken up occupation right inside his chest and gotten _secrets_ out of him without even asking or demanding, without torture or threatening to unleash hellfire on his loved ones.

And now she knew one of his most carefully guarded secrets. One he had resisted even so much as putting words to himself, because it just hurt too damn bad and he didn't have time for this shit, damn it.

Except he had confessed those feelings to Charlie over whiskey and vodka and those carefully guarded thoughts were laid out in the open, taken out of the padlocked boxes he had put them in, tried (failed) to repress them in, and then she had to go and put names to those feelings and thoughts and deep-seated discomforts.

G-d, she'd asked him if he was _transgender_. Transgender, him! It wasn't like he didn't know what the word meant or that people like that existed (hell, he'd met a few in all of his years traveling the country), but for all the times the topic had come up in the Oprah, Dr. Phil, and Barbara Walters specials he pretended he didn't watch, he had never considered the topic in reference to himself. He had considered it in the abstract, the pain transgender people must feel, the way society and their biology conspired to make them miserable, but for all their descriptions of their own deep-seated discomforts, he had never tried to make those notions concrete, had never wondered if perhaps there was something similar, miserable in just the same way, behind the pain and longings he himself felt.

But Charlie Bradbury, in a single sentence, an innocent, discerning, alcohol-fueled question, had thrown decades of repression and depression down the drain and barrelled straight past his self-imposed restraints and torn them down.

And— G-d. He was- he was exactly that. He— _she?_ (and G-d, didn't that make her feel all warm and fuzzy in the chest) was a girl.

It only took almost forty years each of Earth and Hell and a hell of a lot of whiskey and girlie drinks for her to admit it.


End file.
